


Dusk

by MephistosPoodle



Category: Dangerous Liaisons (1988)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Dreaming, F/M, Femdom, Masturbation, Mild S&M, S&M, Some impact play, Subspace, The Vicomte has some repressed fantasies alright, Well not too repressed, kinky fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 18:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MephistosPoodle/pseuds/MephistosPoodle
Summary: There is a coleur to his desperation for the Marquise that is different from anything another lover has ever made him experience. A desire in thrilling discordance to all he has ever known. What makes the Vicomte splay himself out like this, alone and in pained arousal, is not in fact the thought of having the Marquise - it is the thought of being taken by her.





	Dusk

The dusk in Paris is a beautiful thing. It rolls in slowly over the workshops and the stench of the slums; a heaving pale fog of cool nighttime air that continues on past the small city churches and the amusement district right into the vast alleys of theaters and townhouses. Only an hour ago moon an sun were at balance in the clouded sky but now the scales have been tipped and darkness starts to seep through the heavy curtains of the boudoir.  
The Vicomte de Valmont has retired from the chaos of the city to the calm shade of those exact curtains, and presently he has arranged himself on a small settee that stands at the bottom of his bed. He too has seen the fog roll into Paris and from the moment he left that gathering he had been attending all through the afternoon, and made his way home through the crowded streets, a strange feeling had crept up on him. Something about this lingering gap between day and night, some secret ingredient of the thick, saturated air leaves him so receptive to subconscious suggestion - so very open to base imagination. 

He has opened the windows that lead out into the dusk, the curtains however are all shut and only a large candleholder illuminates the room. His clothes are bundled up in a heap by the door. He has kicked them all off upon entering the room, has stripped down to his naked body to sit here facing the wall, to breathe in the mist that crawls through the curtains and imagine the glorious day on which the exalted Marquise de Merteuil will descend from her throne of velvet an lost souls to make love to him.  
He likes to do this sometimes. When the air is just right and night and day become one, he likes to sit like this and get lost in his deepest desires. He thinks of the Marquise; of the knowing glitter in her eyes and the endless labyrinth of her halls - of the game they have played for so long. Deep in his heart he knows that he may never actually have her, for the sexual momentum they breed between them would be irretrievably lost in the process of pursuit and it is the pain of not having her that truly excites him. Without having even so much as touched himself he can feel himself getting hard at the sheer thought of this thrill. There is a coleur to his desperation for the Marquise that is different from anything another lover has ever made him experience. A desire in thrilling discordance to all he has ever known. What makes the Vicomte splay himself out like this, alone and in pained arousal, is not in fact the thought of _having_ the Marquise - it is the thought of _being taken by her_.  
Oh, to be taken by her- the idea makes him moan obscenely into the quiet of his bedchamber. He wants badly to touch himself but he urges himself not to. He wants to wait, wait for Madame, until he can clearly see her before himself in his imagination. And so he dips his head back over the backrest of settee, legs splayed and cock twitching, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and enters a dream.

In his dream he is still sat on the settee. He can still feel the draft of the open windows on his naked body and his vision is still dark. He cannot open his eyes, or maybe he can, it doesn’t make any difference. He has been stripped of his vision completely and he can feel the tug of ropes tying his arms and wrists to the backrest. She is with him in the room. He can sense her with every inch of his body, can smell the scent of her perfumes on the cool air and he can hear the shifting of her layered skirts as she makes her way over to him from a corner of the room. He can now sense her towering over him, feels her gaze all over his displayed body. He bares his throat to her as far as his neck will allow. He hears her laugh in response to this. A dismissive little laugh that is sharp and shiny around the edges.  
‚My my, Vicomte; look at the state you are in. All this in anticipation of my arrival?‘ she says. It feels as though her voice is in his skull. He lets out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan and suddenly her hand is around his balls, her soft palm grabbing ahold of him, keeping him in place, claiming. ‚I asked you a question Vicomte, will you insult me by refusing an answer?‘  
‚No Madame,‘ he shudders,’All this in anticipation of you Madame.’ In his dream she is simultaneously more and less than her name and title to him. She is never Marquise, she is only Madame.  
‚Good boy‘ she says and something in her voice makes his body twitch as she loosens her grip to a firm touch and moves her hand up and around his shaft. He feels her perfumed hand stroke him once or twice and he melts into her touch, opening his legs even wider for her. Her breath breezes over his collarbone as she moves in and licks him, from the nape of his neck up to the side of his cheek, with her teeth scraping his skin. With her hand still stroking his cock he can almost see her painted lips as she whispers into his ear: ‚You are mine for tonight Vicomte. Every part of you mine to do with as I please.‘  
‚Oui Madame!‘ he bucks into her stroking, closer into this aura of power that is making his skin tingle. She makes a deep, purring sound of approval and uses her free hand to grip tightly onto a good chunk of his hair. Then, she brings up her other hand, flattens in out against his abdomen and presses in. The pressure makes him gasp. He can feel the folds of her wide skirts between his knees as she moves her an up the median of his chest without ever giving in on the pressure. Like this, with his head locked in place and her hand pressing in on his chest, he feels completely and utterly stabilized. A sense of security, of being owned, resonates deep within him and from that same place deep within comes a dark, guttural moan that leaves his lips slightly open and panting. She chuckles and brings her hand up even further, closes it around his neck and presses in from the sides - choking him just enough for him to feel dazed and slightly disoriented. 

And then she kisses him. She kisses him possessively and forceful and where the restricted airflow has left him feeling faint and lost a he has now found new purpose in the warmth of her mouth. Somewhere amidst the kiss she lets loose around his neck and the return of oxygen to his lungs makes every sensation feel impossibly real and vibrant. Her kiss envelops him and washes over him in flashes of heat. Her hand vanishes from around his neck and he hears the sound of rope being pulled somewhere behind his head and then suddenly his arms are free to move again. Madame is still holding him by his hair and drowning him in kisses but she has given free his arms. He tries reaching out for her, tries wrapping himself around her, but the second his hand touches her she violently pulls his head back out of the kiss and slaps him. Stinging and burning pain runs through his face and Adrenaline shoots up in him. He wants to protest, to dispute her decision, but he does not want to win the argument. He wants only for her to subdue him. Madame takes a step back and without any further cue he feels himself sinking off of the settee and onto his knees before her. 

Something has shifted within him now. He is not who he was before, in this moment he is barely a person. Right now, kneeling before Madame is all he is; his cock leaking precum into thin air, panting deeply and open mouthed with bruises forming around his neck.  
‚Madame.‘ he lets out. It is a plea and an invitation. An invite for her to do whatever she wants to his absolute and desperate submission to her in this moment. _‚Madame.‘_ he pants again, his erection has become painful at this point but he’d not ever dare to even attempt touching himself at his own accord right now.  
‚Yes, that’s right mon cherí,‘ she purrs,’beg for me.’  
‚Please Madame, please, let me… let me touch-‚  
She interrupts him with her answer and she answers with a slowly, dripping tone; deliberately contrasting this absolute desperation she has reduced him to. ‚Yes. You may touch me‘  
It is not what he wanted to ask for but he is like a dying man in the desert and thankfulness washes over him as he tries gripping into the embroidered silk of her skirt. She lifts it up then, and he clings to her silk stockings, kissing, touching and worshipping. Trying in frenzy to take in the smell of her skin so that he may never forget. Then she lifts up his chin and slides two fingers into his mouth and he starts sucking them. She hums in approval and he is desperate to satisfy her. He sucks and licks her fingers shamelessly and without holding back anything at all. He is lost and delirious. She pulls him in then, his face buried in layers and layers of silk and rosewater.  
‚You may touch yourself‘ she says.  
He is a quivering mess at her feet now. Stroking his raging erection while moaning loudly and rhythmically into her skirts and clinging desperately to the fingers she occasionally dips back into his mouth. He feels himself getting closer and closer, hips spasming into his hand as his breathing becomes erratic. He barely notices her hand fumbling on the blindfold. But then, suddenly she pulls it off and his vision is restored. The candlelit room seems incredibly bright to his widened pupils but all he processes are her grey eyes staring directly at this base and primal creature he has become as she tells him; ‚You may come.‘

And the Vicomte de Valmont comes violently all over his hand and bare thigh and the wood panels of the floor he is kneeling on. His back arching and his voice no more than wanton whisper in the dark, he comes and utters her name; ,Isabelle!’ But she is not there anymore. His eyes are wide open and he is back with himself in his boudoir, kneeling spent for a woman he can never have. The Vicomte collapses on the floor with a sigh and a smile on his face. In a minute he will have to get up to close the windows. He will then smile another smile when he sees how the light over Paris has shifted once more as he was dreaming; the dusk is over and the night has begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you've enjoyed this shameless insight into my own fantasies. Please do leave a comment to tell what you thought!


End file.
